1822  01609  8402 


Central  University  Library 

University  Of  California,  San  Diego 
Note:  This  item  is  subject  to  recall  after  two  weeks. 

Date  Due 


OCT  0 1 1993 


0139(1/91) 


UCSDLib. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAN  DIEGO 


3  1822  01609  8402 


ANACTORIA 

AND    OTHER    LYRICAL 
POEMS 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/anactoriaotherlyOOswiniala 


ANACTORIA 

JND  OTHER 

LYRICAL 

POEMS 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL    KENNERLEY 

MDCCCCVI 


//  is  a  far  cry  from  the  four  thousand  and  more 
pages  of  the  Collected  Poems  and  Tragedies 
of  Mr.  Swinburne.,  recently  issued  in  eleven 
volumes.^  to  this  little  book  of  selections ;  but  at 
least  it  may  be  said  of  Anactoria  and  other 
Lyrical  Poems  that  it  contains  nothing  that  is 
not  among  Mr.  Swinburne' s  best  work.  An 
eminent  critic  was  bold  enough  not  long  ago  to 
suggest  that  in  days  to  come  Poems  and  Ballads 
will  not  be  so  highly  considered  as  it  is  to-day.^ 
and  with  this  obiter  dicta  it  is  difficult  to  disagree. 
Hence  the  omission  from  this  book  of  such  faded 
favourites  of  our  youth  as  Felise^  Faustine^  Frag- 
oletta  and  Dolores.,  and  those  other  poems  dealing 
with  '•''The  burden  of  bought  kisses"  which  made 
Poems  and  Ballads  the  most  romantic  book  of 
poems  of  the  last  fifty  years. 


Contents 

Anactoria  1 3 

Salt  of  the  Earth  24 

Chorus  from  Atalanta  in   Calydon  25 

Rococo  27 

A  Ballad  of  Francois  Villon  31 

The  Garden  of  Proserpine  33 

To  Walt  Whitman  in  America  37 

A  Leave-Taking  43 

Madonna  Mia  45 

Adieux  a  Marie  Stuart  49 

Sonnet  with  a  copy  of  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin  56 

A   Match  57 

In  Memory  of  Walter  Savage  Landor  59 

The  Oblation  62 

The  Triumph  of  Time  63 


ANACTORIA 

AND    OTHER    LYRICAL 
POEMS 


Anactoria 


Tivo^  ai  TV  ntdBoi 
fidij)  aayrivevaag  ^iX&raTa; 

Sappho 

MY  life  is  bitter  with  thy  love  ;  thine  eyes 
Blind  me,  thy  tresses  burn  me,  thy  sharp  sighs 
Divide  my  flesh  and  spirit  with  soft  sound. 
And  my  blood  strengthens,  and  my  veins  abound. 
I  pray  thee  sigh  not,  speak  not,  draw  not  breath ; 
Let  life  burn  down,  and  dream  it  is  not  death. 
I  would  the  sea  had  hidden  us,  the  fire 
(Wilt  thou  fear  that,  and  fear  not  my  desire?) 
Severed  the  bones  that  bleach,  the  flesh  that  cleaves. 
And  let  our  sifted  ashes  drop  like  leaves. 
I  feel  thy  blood  against  my  blood  :   my  pain 
Pains  thee,  and  lips  bruise  lips,  and  vein  stings  vein. 
Let  fruit  be  crushed  on  fruit,  let  flower  on  flower. 
Breast  kindle  breast,  and  either  burn  one  hour. 
Why  wilt  thou  follow  lesser  loves  ?    are  thine 
Too  weak  to  bear  these  hands  and  lips  of  mine  ? 
I  charge  thee  for  my  life's  sake,  O  too  sweet 
To  crush  love  with  thy  cruel  faultless  feet, 
I  charge  thee  keep  thy  lips  from  hers  or  his. 
Sweetest,  till  theirs  be  sweeter  than  my  kiss : 
Lest  I  too  lure,  a  swallow  for  a  dove, 
Erotion  or  Erinna  to  my  love. 
I  would  my  love  could  kill  thee  ;  I  am  satiated 
With  seeing  thee  live,  and  fain  would  have  thee  dead. 


13 


Anactoria 


I  would  earth  had  thy  body  as  fruit  to  eat, 

And  no  mouth  but  some  serpent's  found  thee  sweet. 

I  would  find  grievous  ways  to  have  thee  slain, 

Intense  device,  and  superflux  of  pain  ; 

Vex  thee  with  amorous  agonies,  and  shake 

Life  at  thy  lips,  and  leave  it  there  to  ache  ; 

Strain  out  thy  soul  with  pangs  too  soft  to  kill, 

Intolerable  interludes,  and  infinite  ill ; 

Relapse  and  reluctation  of  the  breath. 

Dumb  tunes  and  shuddering  semitones  of  death. 

I  am  weary  of  all  thy  words  and  soft  strange  ways. 

Of  all  love's  fiery  nights  and  all  his  days. 

And  all  the  broken  kisses  salt  as  brine 

That  shuddering  lips  make  moist  with  waterish  wine. 

And  eyes  the  bluer  for  all  those  hidden  hours 

That  pleasure  fills  with  tears  and  feeds  from  flowers, 

Fierce  at  the  heart  with  fire  that  half  comes  through. 

But  all  the  flower-like  white  stained  round  with  blue  ; 

The  fervent  underlid,  and  that  above 

Lifted  with  laughter  or  abashed  with  love  ; 

Thine  amorous  girdle,  full  of  thee  and  fair. 

And  leavings  of  the  lilies  in  thine  hair. 

Yea,  all  sweet  words  of  thine  and  all  thy  ways. 

And  all  the  fruit  of  nights  and  flower  of  days. 

And  stinging  lips  wherein  the  hot  sweet  brine 

That  Love  was  born  of  burns  and  foams  like  wine, 

And  eyes  insatiable  of  amorous  hours. 

Fervent  as  fire  and  delicate  as  flowers. 


H 


Anactoria 


Coloured  like  night  at  heart,  but  cloven  through 

Like  night  with  flame,  dyed  round  like  night  with  blue, 

Clothed  with  deep  eyelids  under  and  above  — 

Yea,  all  thy  beauty  sickens  me  with  love  ; 

Thy  girdle  empty  of  thee  and  now  not  fair. 

And  ruinous  lilies  in  thy  languid  hair. 

Ah,  take  no  thought  for  Love's  sake;  shall  this  be. 

And  she  who  loves  thy  lover  not  love  thee  ? 

Sweet  soul,  sweet  mouth  of  all  that  laughs  and  lives, 

Mine  is  she,  very  mine ;  and  she  forgives. 

For  I  beheld  in  sleep  the  light  that  is 

In  her  high  place  in   Paphos,  heard  the  kiss 

Of  body  and  soul  that  mix  with  eager  tears 

And  laughter  stinging  through  the  eyes  and  ears ; 

Saw  Love,  as  burning  flame  from  crown  to  feet, 

Imperishable,  upon  her  storied  seat; 

Clear  eyelids  lifted  toward  the  north  and  south, 

A  mind  of  many  colours,  and  a  mouth 

Of  many  tunes  and  kisses;  and  she  bowed. 

With  all  her  subtle  face  laughing  aloud. 

Bowed  down  upon  me,  saying,  *  Who  doth  thee  wrong, 

Sappho  ? '  but  thou — thy  body  is  the  song, 

Thy  mouth  the  music  ;  thou  art  more  than  I, 

Though  my  voice  die  not  till  the  whole  world  die ; 

Though  men  that  hear  it  madden  ;  though  love  weep. 

Though  nature  change,  though  shame  be  charmed  to  sleep. 

Ah,  wilt  thou  slay  me  lest  I  kiss  thee  dead  ? 

Yet  the  queen  liiughed  from  her  sweet  heart  and  said : 


»5 


Anactoria 


*■  Even  she  that  flies  sha'll  follow  for  thy  sake, 

And  she  shall  give  thee  gifts  that  would  not  take, 

Shall  kiss  that  would  not  kiss  thee '  (yea,  kiss  me) 

*  When  thou  wouldst  not ' — when  I  would  not  kiss  thee  ! 

Ah,  more  to  me  than  all  men  as  thou  art. 

Shall  not  my  songs  assuage  her  at  the  heart  ? 

Ah,  sweet  to  me  as  life  seems  sweet  to  death. 

Why  should  her  wrath  fill  thee  with  fearful  breath  ? 

Nay,  sweet,  for  is  she  God  alone  ?  hath  she 

Made  earth  and  all  the  centuries  of  the  sea. 

Taught  the  sun  ways  to  travel,  woven  most  fine 

The  moonbeams,  shed  the  starbeams  forth  as  wine, 

Bound  with  her  myrtles,  beaten  with  her  rods. 

The  young  men  and  the  maidens  and  the  gods  ? 

Have  we  not  lips  to  love  with,  eyes  for  tears. 

And  summer  and  flower  of  women  and  of  years  ? 

Stars  for  the  foot  of  morning,  and  for  noon 

Sunlight,  and  exaltation  of  the  moon  ; 

Waters  that  answer  waters,  fields  that  wear 

Lilies,  and  languor  of  the  Lesbian  air  ? 

Beyond  those  flying  feet  of  fluttered  doves. 

Are  there  not  other  gods  for  other  loves  ? 

Yea,  though  she  scourge  thee,  sweetest,  for  my  sake. 

Blossom  not  thorns,  and  flowers  not  blood  should  break. 

Ah  that  my  lips  were  tuneless  lips,  but  pressed 

To  the  bruised  blossom  of  thy  scourged  white  breast  ! 

Ah  that  my  mouth  for  Muses'  milk  were  fed 

On  the  sweet  blood  thy  sweet  small  wounds  had  bled  ! 


i6 


Anactoria 


That  with  my  tongue  I  felt  them,  and  could  taste 
The  faint  flakes  from  thy  bosom  to  the  waist ! 
That  I  could  drink  thy  veins  as  wine,  and  eat 
Thy.  breasts  like  honey  !  that  from  face  to  feet 
Thy  body  were  abolished  and  consumed, 
And  in  my  flesh  thy  very  flesh  entombed  ! 
Ah,  ah,  thy  beauty  !  like  a  beast  it  bites, 
Stings  like  an  adder,  like  an  arrow  smites. 
Ah  sweet,  and  sweet  again,  and  seven  times  sweet. 
The  paces  and  the  pauses  of  thy  feet  ! 
Ah  sweeter  than  all  sleep  or  summer  air 
The  fallen  fillets  fragrant  from  thine  hair  ! 
Yea,  though  their  alien  kisses  do  me  wrong. 
Sweeter  thy  lips  than  mine  with  all  their  song; 
Thy  shoulders  whiter  than  a  fleece  of  white, 
And  flower-sweet  fingers,  good  to  bruise  or  bite 
As  honeycomb  of  the  inmost  honey-cells. 
With  almond-shaped  and  roseleaf-coloured  shells. 
And  blood  like  purple  blossom  at  the  tips 
Quivering;  and  pain  made  perfect  in  thy  lips 
For  my  sake  when  I  hurt  thee ;  O  that  I 
Durst  crush  thee  out  of  life  with  love,  and  die. 
Die  of  thy  pain  and  my  delight,  and  be 
Mixed  with  thy  blood  and  molten  into  thee  ! 
Would  I  not  plague  thee  dying  overmuch  ? 
Would  I  not  hurt  thee  perfectly  ?  not  touch 
Thy  pores  of  sense  with  torture,  and  make  bright 
Thine  eyes  with  bloodlike  tears  and  grievous  light  ! 


»7 


Anactoria 


Strike  pang  from  pang  as  note  is  struck  from  note, 

Catch  the  sob's  middle  music  in  thy  throat, 

Take  thy  limbs  living,  and  new-mould  with  these 

A  lyre  of  many  faultless  agonies  ? 

Feed  thee  with  fever  and  famine  and  fine  drouth, 

With  perfect  pangs  convulse  thy  perfect  mouth, 

Make  thy  life  shudder  in  thee  and  burn  afresh. 

And  wring  thy  very  spirit  through  the  flesh  ? 

Cruel  ?  but  love  makes  all  that  love  him  well 

As  wise  as  heaven  and  crueller  than  hell. 

Me  hath  love  made  more  bitter  toward  thee 

Than  death  toward  man ;  but  were  I  made  as  he 

Who  hath  made  all  things  to  break  them  one  by  one, 

If  my  feet  trod  upon  the  stars  and  sun 

And  souls  of  men  as  his  have  alway  trod, 

God  knows  I  might  be  crueller  than  God. 

For  who  shall  change  with  prayers  or  thanksgivings 

The  mystery  of  the  cruelty  of  things  ? 

Or  say  what  God  above  all  gods  and  years, 

With  offering  and  blood-sacrifice  of  tears. 

With  lamentation  from  strange  lands,  from  graves 

Where  the  snake  pastures,  from  scarred  mouth  of  slaves. 

From  prison,  and  from  plunging  prows  of  ships 

Through  flamelike  foam  of  the  sea's  closing  lips  — 

With  thwartings  of  strange  signs,  and  wind-blown  hair 

Of  comets,  desolating  the  dim  air. 

When  darkness  is  made  fast  with  seals  and  bars, 

And  fierce  reluctance  of  disastrous  stars. 


i8 


Anactoria 


Eclipse,  and  sound  of  shaken  hills,  and  wings 

Darkening,  and  blind  inexpiable  things  — 

With  sorrow  of  labouring  moons,  and  altering  light 

And  travail  of  the  planets  of  the  night. 

And  weeping  of  the  weary  Pleiads  seven. 

Feeds  the  mute  melancholy  lust  of  heaven  ? 

Is  not  this  incense  bitterness,  his  meat 

Murder  ?  his  hidden  face  and  iron  feet 

Hath  not  man  known,  and  felt  them  on  their  way 

Threaten  and  trample  all  things  and  every  day  ? 

Hath  he  not  sent  us  hunger  ?  who  hath  cursed 

Spirit  and  flesh  with  longing  ?   filled  with  thirst 

Their  lips  who  cried  unto  him  ?  who  bade  exceed 

The  fervid  will,  fall  short  the  feeble  deed. 

Bade  sink  the  spirit  and  the  flesh  aspire. 

Pain  animate  the  dust  of  dead  desire. 

And  life  yield  up  her  flower  to  violent  fate  ? 

Him  would  I  reach,  him  smite,  him  desecrate. 

Pierce  the  cold  lips  of  God  with  human  breath. 

And  mix  his  immortality  with  death. 

Why  hath  he  made  us  ?  what  had  all  we  done 

That  we  should  live  and  loathe  the  sterile  sun. 

And  with  the  moon  wax  paler  as  she  wanes. 

And  pulse  by  pulse  feel  time  grow  through  our  veins  ? 

Thee  too  the  years  shall  cover  ;  thou  shalt  be 

As  the  rose  born  of  one  same  blood  with  thee. 

As  a  song  sung,  as  a  word  said,  and  fall 

Flower-wise,  and  be  not  any  more  at  all, 


>9 


Anactoria 


Nor  any  memory  of  thee  anywhere  ; 
For  never  Muse  has  bound  above  thine  hair 
The  high  Pierian  flowers  whose  graft  outgrows 
All  summer  kinship  of  the  mortal  rose 
And  colour  of  deciduous  days,  nor  shed 
Reflex  and  flush  of  heaven  about  thine  head, 
Nor  reddened  brows  made  pale  by  floral  grief 
With  splendid  shadow  from  that  lordlier  leaf. 
Yea,  thou  shalt  be  forgotten  like  spilt  wine. 
Except  these  kisses  of  my  lips  on  thine 
Brand  them  with  immortality ;  but  me  — 
Men  shall  not  see  bright  fire  nor  hear  the  sea. 
Nor  mix  their  hearts  with  music,  nor  behold 
Cast  forth  of  heaven  with  feet  of  awful  gold 
And  plumeless  wings  that  make  the  bright  air  blind. 
Lightning,  with  thunder  for  a  hound  behind 
Hunting  through  fields  unfurrowed  and  unsown  — 
But  in  the  light  and  laughter,  in  the  moan 
And  music,  and  in  grasp  of  lip  and  hand 
And  shudder  of  water  that  makes  felt  on  land 
The  immeasurable  tremor  of  all  the  sea. 
Memories  shall  mix  and  metaphors  of  me. 
Like  me  shall  be  the  shuddering  calm  of  night. 
When  all  the  winds  of  the  world  for  pure  delight 
Close  lips  that  quiver  and  fold  up  wings  that  ache  ; 
When  nightingales  are  louder  for  love's  sake. 
And  leaves  tremble  like  lute-strings  or  like  fire  ; 
Like  me  the  one  star  swooning  with  desire 


Anactoria 


Even  at  the  cold  lips  of  the  sleepless  moon, 
As  I  at  thine  ;  like  me  the  waste  white  noon, 
Burnt  through  with  barren  sunlight ;  and  like  me 
The  land-stream  and  the  tide-stream  in  the  sea. 
I  am  sick  with  time  as  these  with  ebb  and  flow. 
And  by  the  yearning  in  my  veins  I  know 
The  yearning  sound  of  waters  ;  and  mine  eyes 
Burn  as  that  beamless  fire  which  fills  the  skies 
With  troubled  stars  and  travailing  things  of  flame  ; 
And  in  my  heart  the  grief  consuming  them 
Labours,  and  in  my  veins  the  thirst  of  these. 
And  all  the  summer  travail  of  the  trees 
And  all  the  winter  sickness ;  and  the  earth. 
Filled  full  with  deadly  works  of  death  and  birth, 
Sore  spent  with  hungry  lusts  of  birth  and  death. 
Has  pain  like  mine  in  her  divided  breath  ; 
Her  spring  of  leaves  is  barren,  and  her  fruit 
Ashes  J  her  boughs  are  burdened,  and  her  root 
Fibrous  and  gnarled  with  poison;  underneath 
Serpents  have  gnawn  it  through  with  tortuous  teeth 
Made  sharp  upon  the  bones  of  all  the  dead. 
And  wild  birds  rend  her  branches  overhead. 
These,  woven  as  raiment  for  his  word  and  thought. 
These  hath  God  made,  and  me  as  these,  and  wrought 
Song,  and  hath  lit  it  at  my  lips;  and  me 
Earth  shall  not  gather  though  she  feed  on  thee. 
As  a  shed  tear  shalt  thou  be  shed  ;  but  I  — 
Lo,  earth  may  labour,  men  live  long  and  die. 


Anactoria 


Years  change  and  stars,  and  the  high  God  devise 

New  things,  and  old  things  wane  before  his  eyes 

Who  wields  and  wrecks  them,  being  more  strong  than  they 

But,  having  made  me,  me  he  shall  not  slay. 

Nor  slay  nor  satiate,  like  those  herds  of  his 

Who  laugh  and  live  a  little,  and  their  kiss 

Contents  them,  and  their  loves  are  swift  and  sweet. 

And  sure  death  grasps  and  gains  them  with  slow  feet. 

Love  they  or  hate  they,  strive  or  bow  their  knees  — 

And  all  these  end;  he  hath  his  will  of  these. 

Yea,  but  albeit  he  slay  me,  hating  me  — 

Albeit  he  hide  me  in  the  deep  dear  sea 

And  cover  me  with  cool  wan  foam,  and  ease 

This  soul  of  mine  as  any  soul  of  these. 

And  give  me  water  and  great  sweet  waves,  and  make 

The  very  sea's  name  lordlier  for  my  sake. 

The  whole  sea  sweeter  —  albeit  I  die  indeed 

And  hide  myself  and  sleep  and  no  man  heed. 

Of  me  the  high  God  hath  not  all  his  will. 

Blossom  of  branches,  and  on  each  high  hill 

Clear  air  and  wind,  and  under  in  clamorous  vales 

Fierce  noises  of  the  fiery  nightingales. 

Buds  burning  in  the  sudden  spring  like  fire. 

The  wan  washed  sand  and  the  waves'  vain  desire. 

Sails  seem  like  blown  white  flowers  at  sea,  and  words 

That  bring  tears  swiftest,  and  long  notes  of  birds 

Violently  singing  till  the  whole  world  sings  — 

I  Sappho  shall  be  one  with  all  these  things. 


Anactoria 


With  all  high  things  forever;  and  my  face 

Seen  once,  my  songs  once  heard  in  a  strange  place, 

Cleave  to  men's  lives,  and  waste  the  days  thereof 

With  gladness  and  much  sadness  and  long  love. 

Yea,  they  shall  say,  earth's  womb  has  borne  in  vain 

New  things,  and  never  this  best  thing  again ; 

Borne  days  and  men,  borne  fruits  and  wars  and  wine. 

Seasons  and  songs,  but  no  song  more  like  mine. 

And  they  shall  know  me  as  ye  who  have  known  me  here, 

Last  year  when  I  loved  Atthis,  and  this  year 

When  I  love  thee;  and  they  shall  praise  me,  and  say 

'■  She  hath  all  time  as  all  we  have  our  day, 

Shall  she  not  live  and  have  her  will ' —  even  I  ? 

Yea,  though  thou  diest,  I  say  I  shall  not  die. 

For  these  shall  give  me  of  their  souls,  shall  give 

Life,  and  the  days  and  loves  wherewith  I  live. 

Shall  quicken  me  with  loving,  fill  with  breath. 

Save  me  and  serve  me,  strive  for  me  with  death. 

Alas,  that  neither  moon  nor  snow  nor  dew 

Nor  all  cold  things  can  purge  me  wholly  through. 

Assuage  me  nor  allay  me  nor  appease. 

Till  supreme  sleep  shall  bring  me  bloodless  ease ; 

Till  time  wax  faint  in  all  his  periods; 

Till  fate  undo  the  bondage  of  the  gods. 

And  lay,  to  slake  and  satiate  me  all  through, 

Lotus  and  Lethe  on  my  lips  like  dew. 

And  shed  around  and  over  and  under  me 

Thick  darkness  and  the  insuperable  sea. 


23 


The  Salt  of  the  Earth 


TF  childhood  were  not  in  the  world, 
^      But  only  men  and  women  grown  ; 
No  baby-locks  in  tendnls  curled, 
No  baby-blossoms  blown ; 

Though  men  were  stronger,  women  fairer, 
And  nearer  all  delights  in  reach. 

And  verse  and  music  uttered  rarer 
Tones  of  more  godlike  speech  ; 

Though  the  utmost  life  of  life's  best  hours 
Found,  as  it  cannot  now  find,  words  ; 

Though  desert  sands  were  sweet  as  flowers 
And  flowers  could  sing  like  birds. 

But  children  never  heard  them,  never 
They  felt  a  child's  foot  leap  and  run 

This  were  a  drearier  star  than  ever 
Yet  looked  upon  the  sun. 


*+ 


chorus- From  Atalanta  In  Calydon 


BEFORE  the  beginning  of  years 
There  came  to  the  making  of  man 
Time,  with  a  gift  of  tears  ; 

Grief,  with  a  glass  that  ran  ; 
Pleasure,  with  pain  for  leaven ; 

Summer,  with  flowers  that  fell ; 
Remembrance  fallen  from  heaven, 

And  madness  risen  from  hell ; 
Strength  without  hands  to  smite ; 

Love  that  endures  for  a  breath; 
Night,  the  shadow  of  light. 

And  life,  the  shadow  of  death. 

And  the  high  gods  took  in  hand 

Fire,  and  the  falling  of  tears. 
And  a  measure  of  sliding  sand 

From  under  the  feet  of  the  years. 
And  froth  and  drift  of  the  sea ; 

And  dust  of  the  labouring  earth ; 
And  bodies  of  things  to  be 

In  the  houses  of  death  and  of  birth  ; 
And  wrought  with  weeping  and  laughter, 

And  fashioned  with  loathing  and  love, 
With  life  before  and  after 

And  death  beneath  and  above. 
For  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  morrow. 

That  his  strength  might  endure  for  a  span 
With  travail  and  heavy  sorrow. 

The  holy  spirit  of  man. 


25 


Chorus  From  Atalanta  In  Calydon 


From  the  winds  of  the  north  and  the  south 

They  gathered  as  unto  strife ; 
They  breathed  upon  his  mouth, 

They  filled  his  body  with  life  ; 
Eyesight  and  speech  they  wrought 

For  the  veils  of  the  soul  therein, 
A  time  for  labor  and  thought, 

A  time  to  serve  and  to  sin  ; 
They  gave  him  light  in  his  ways. 

And  love  and  a  space  for  delight. 
And  beauty  and  length  of  days. 

And  night,  and  sleep  in  the  night. 
His  speech  is  a  burning  fire  ; 

With  his  lips  he  travaileth  : 
In  his  heart  is  a  blind  desire, 

In  his  eyes  foreknowledge  of  death  ; 
He  weaves,  and  is  clothed  with  derision  ; 

Sows,  and  he  shall  not  reap  ; 
His  life  is  a  watch  or  a  vision 

Between  a  sleep  and  a  sleep. 


26 


Rococo 


TAKE  hands  and  part  with  laughter; 
Touch  lips  and  part  with  tears ; 
Once  more  and  no  more  after, 
Whatever  comes  with  years. 
We  twain  shall  not  remeasure 

The  ways  that  left  us  twain; 
Nor  crush  the  lees  of  pleasure 
From  sanguine  grapes  of  pain. 

We  twain  once  well  in  sunder, 

What  will  the  mad  gods  do 
For  hate  with  me,  I  wonder. 

Or  what  for  love  with  you  ? 
Forget  them  till  November, 

And  dream  there's  April  yet 
Forget  that  I  remember, 

And  dream  that  I  forget. 


Time  found  our  tired  love  sleeping, 

And  kissed  away  his  breath; 
But  what  should  we  do  weeping. 

Though  light  love  sleep  to  death? 
We  have  drained  his  lips  at  leisure. 

Till  there's  not  left  to  drain 
A  single  sob  of  pleasure, 

A  single  pulse  of  pain. 


27 


Rococo 


Dream  that  the  lips  once  breathless 

Might  quicken  if  they  would; 
Say  that  the  soul  is  deathless; 

Dream  that  the  gods  are  good ; 
Say  March  may  wed  September, 

And  time  divorce  regret; 
But  not  that  you  remember, 

And  not  that  I  forget. 


We  have  heard  from  hidden  places 

What  love  scarce  lives  and  hears : 
We  have  seen  on  fervent  faces 

The  pallor  of  strange  tears : 
We  have  trod  the  wine-vat's  treasure, 

Whence,  ripe  to  steam  and  stain, 
Foams  round  the  feet  of  pleasure 

The  blood-red  must  of  pain. 


Remembrance  may  recover 

And  time  bring  back  to  time 
The  name  of  your  first  lover. 

The  ring  of  my  first  rhyme ; 
But  rose-leaves  of  December 

The  frosts  of  June  shall  fret. 
The  day  that  you  remember. 

The  day  that  I  forget. 


28 


Rococo 


The  snake  that  hides  and  hisses 

In  heaven  we  twain  have  known ; 
The  grief  of  cruel  kisses, 

The  joy  whose  mouth  makes  moan  j 
The  pulse's  pause  and  measure, 

Where  in  one  furtive  vein 
Throbs  through  the  heart  of  pleasure 

The  purpler  blood  of  pain. 


We  have  done  with  tears  and  treasons 

And  love  for  treason's  sake; 
Room  for  the  swift  new  seasons, 

The  years  that  burn  and  break. 
Dismantle  and  dismember 

Men's  days  and  dreams,  Juliette ; 
For  love  may  not  remember. 

But  time  will  not  forget. 


Life  treads  down  love  in  flying. 

Time  withers  him  at  root; 
Bring  all  dead  things  and  dying. 

Reaped  sheaf  and  ruined  fruit. 
Where,  crushed  by  three  days'  pressure 

Our  three  days'  love  lies  slain ; 
And  earlier  leaf  of  pleasure. 

And  latter  flower  of  pain. 


29 


Rococo 


Breathe  close  upon  the  ashes, 

It  may  be  flame  will  leap  ; 
Unclose  the  soft  close  lashes, 

Lift  up  the  lids,  and  weep. 
Light  love's  extinguished  ember, 

Let  one  tear  leave  it  wet 
For  one  that  you  remember 

And  ten  that  you  forget. 


3° 


A    Ballad   of  Francois   Villon 
Prince  of  all  Ballad-Makers 

BIRD  of  the  bitter  bright  grey  golden  morn 
Scarce  risen  upon  the  dusk  of  dolorous  years, 
First  of  us  all  and  sweetest  singer  born 

Whose  far  shrill  note  the  world  of  new  men  hears 
Cleave  the  cold  shuddering  shade  as  twilight  clears ; 
When  song  new-born  put  off  the  old-world's  attire 
And  felt  its  tune  on  her  changed  lips  expire, 

Writ  foremost  on  the  roll  of  them  that  came 
Fresh  girt  for  service  of  the  latter  lyre, 
Villon,  our  sad  bad  glad  mad  brother's  name  ! 

Alas  the  joy,  the  sorrow,  and  the  scorn. 

That  clothed  thy  life  with  hopes  and  sins  and  fears. 
And  gave  thee  stones  for  bread  and  tares  for  corn 

And  plume-plucked  gaol-birds  for  thy  starveling  peers 

Till  death  dipt  close  their  flight  with  shameful  shears ; 
Till  shifts  came  short  and  love  were  hard  to  hire. 
When  lilt  of  song  nor  twitch  of  twangling  wire 

Could  buy  thee  bread  or  kisses  ;  when  light  fame 
Spurned  like  a  ball  and  haled  through  brake  and  briar, 

Villon,  our  sad  bad  glad  mad  brother's  name ! 

Poor  splendid  wings  so  frayed  and  spoiled  and  torn  ! 
Poor  kind  wild  eyes  so  dashed  with  light  quick  tears  ! 

Poor  perfect  voice,  most  blithe  when  most  forlon. 
That  rings  athwart  the  sea  whence  no  man  steers 
Like  joy-bells  crossed  with  death-bells  in  our  ears  ! 


3' 


A  Ballad   of  Francois   Villon 


What  far  delight  has  cooled  the  fierce  desire 
That  like  some  ravenous  bird  was  strong  to  tire 

On  that  frail  flesh  and  soul  consumed  with  flamt, 
But  left  more  sweet  than  roses  to  respire, 

Villon,  our  sad  bad  glad  mad  brother's  name  ! 

ENVOI 

Prince  of  sweet  songs  made  out  of  tears  and  fire, 
A  harlot  was  thy  nurse,  a  God  thy  sire ; 

Shame  soiled  thy  song,  and  song  assoiled  thy  shame. 
But  from  thy  feet  now  death  has  washed  the  mire. 
Love  reads  out  first  at  head  of  all  our  quire, 

Villon,  our  sad  bad  glad  mad  brother's  name. 


3* 


The  Garden  of  Proserpine 


HERE,  where  the  world  is  quiet ; 
Here,  where  all  trouble  seems 
Dead  winds'  and  spent  waves'  riot 

In  doubtful  dreams  of  dreams  ; 
I  watch  the  green  fields  growing 
For  reaping  folk  and  sowing, 
For  harvest-time  and  mowing, 
A  sleepy  world  of  streams. 

I  am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter, 

And  men  that  laugh  and  weep ; 
Of  what  may  come  hereafter 
For  men  that  sow  to  reap: 
I  am  weary  of  days  and  hours, 
Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers. 
Desires  and  dreams  and  powers 
And  everything  but  sleep. 

Here  life  has  death  for  neighbour. 

And  far  from  eye  or  ear 
Wan  waves  and  wet  winds  labour, 

Weak  ships  and  spirits  steer; 
They  drive  adrift,  and  whither 
They  wot  not  who  make  thither; 
But  no  such  winds  blow  hither. 

And  no  such  things  grow  here. 

No  growth  of  moor  or  coppice, 
No  heather-flower  or  vine, 


33 


The  Garden  of  Proserpine 


But  bloomless  buds  of  poppies, 
Green  grapes  of  Proserpine, 
Pale  beds  of  blowing  rushes 
Where  no  leaf  blooms  or  blushes 
Save  this  whereout  she  crushes 
For  dead  men  deadly  wine. 

Pale,  without  name  or  number. 

In  fruitless  fields  of  corn. 
They  bow  themselves  and  slumber 

All  night  till  light  is  born; 
And  like  a  soul  belated. 
In  hell  and  heaven  unmated. 
By  cloud  and  mist  abated 

Comes  out  of  darkness  morn. 

Though  one  were  strong  as  seven. 
He  too  with  death  shall  dwell. 

Nor  wake  with  wings  in  heaven, 
Nor  weep  for  pains  in  hell ; 

Though  one  were  fair  as  roses. 

His  beauty  clouds  and  closes; 

And  well  though  love  reposes. 
In  the  end  it  is  not  well. 

Pale,  beyond  porch  and  portal. 

Crowned  with  calm  leaves,  she  stands 

Who  gathers  all  things  mortal 
With  cold  immortal  hands  ; 


34 


The  Garden  of  Proserpine 


Her  languid  lips  are  sweeter 
Than  love's  who  fears  to  greet  her 
To  men  that  mix  and  meet  her 
From  many  times  and  lands. 

She  waits  for  each  and  other, 
She  waits  for  all  men  born ; 
Forgets  the  earth  her  mother, 
The  life  of  fruits  and  corn  ; 
And  spring  and  seed  and  swallow 
Take  wing  for  her  and  follow 
Where  summer  song  rings  hollow 
And  flowers  are  put  to  scorn. 

There  go  the  loves  that  wither, 

The  old  loves  with  wearier  wings; 
And  all  dead  years  draw  thither. 

And  all  disastrous  things  ; 
Dead  dreams  of  days  forsaken. 
Blind  buds  that  snows  have  shaken. 
Wild  leaves  that  winds  have  taken. 
Red  strays  of  ruined  springs. 

We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow, 

And  joy  was  never  sure; 
To-day  will  die  to-morrow; 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure  ; 
And  love,  grown  faint  and  fretful. 
With  lips  but  half  regretful 


35 


The  Garden  of  Proserpine 


Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful 
Weeps  that  no  loves  endure. 

From  too  much  love  of  living, 
From  hope  and  fear  set  free. 

We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 
Whatever  gods  may  be 

That  no  life  lives  forever ; 

That  dead  men  rise  up  never; 

That  even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 

Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken, 
Nor  any  change  of  light  : 

Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken, 
Nor  any  sound  or  sight : 

Nor  wintry  leaves  nor  vernal, 

Nor  days  nor  things  diurnal ; 

Only  the  sleep  eternal 
In  an  eternal  night. 


36 


To  Walt  Whitman  in  America 


SEND  but  a  song  oversea  for  us, 
Heart  of  their  hearts  who  are  free, 
Heart  of  their  singer,  to  be  for  us 
More  than  our  singing  can  be ; 
Ours,  in  the  tempest  of  error. 
With  no  light  but  the  twilight  of  terror ; 
Send  us  a  song  oversea ! 

Sweet-smelling  of  pine-leaves  and  grasses. 
And  blown  as  a  tree  through  and  through 

With  the  winds  of  the  keen  mountain-passes. 
And  tender  as  sun-smitten  dew; 

Sharp-tongued  as  the  winter  that  shakes 

The  waste  of  your  limitless  lakes. 
Wide-eyed  as  the  sea-line's  blue. 

O  strong-winged  soul  with  prophetic 
Lips  hot  with  the  bloodbeats  of  song. 

With  tremor  of  heartstrings  magnetic, 
With  thoughts  as  thunders  in  throng. 

With  consonant  ardours  of  chords 

That  pierce  men's  souls  as  with  swords 
And  hale  them  hearing  along. 

Make  us  too  music,  to  be  with  us 

As  a  word  from  a  world's  heart  warm. 

To  sail  the  dark  as  a  sea  with  us. 
Full-sailed,  outsinging  the  storm, 

A  song  to  put  fire  in  our  ears 

Whose  burning  shall  burn  up  tears. 
Whose  sign  bid  battle  reform ; 

37 


To  Walt  Whitman  in  America 


A  note  in  the  ranks  of  a  clarion, 

A  word  in  the  wind  of  cheer, 
To  consume  as  with  lightning  the  carrion 

That  makes  time  foul  for  us  here ; 
In  the  air  that  our  dead  things  infest 
A  blast  of  the  breath  of  the  west. 

Till  east  way  as  west  way  is  clear. 

Out  of  the  sun  beyond  sunset. 

From  the  evening  whence  morning  shall  be, 
With  the  rollers  in  measureless  onset. 

With  the  van  of  the  stormy  sea. 
With  the  world-wide  wind,  with  the  breath 
That  breaks  ships  driven  upon  death. 

With  the  passion  of  all  things  free, 

With  the  sea-steeds  footless  and  frantic. 
White  myriads  for  death  to  bestride 

In  the  charge  of  the  ruining  Atlantic 
Where  deaths  by  regiments  ride. 

With  clouds  and  clamours  of  waters. 

With  a  long  note  shriller  than  slaughter's 
On  the  furrowless  fields  world-wide, 

With  terror,  with  ardour  and  wonder, 
With  the  soul  of  the  season  that  wakes 

When  the  weight  of  a  whole  year's  thunder 
In  the  tidestream  of  autumn  breaks. 

Let  the  flight  of  the  wide-winged  word 

Come  over,  come  in  and  be  heard. 
Take  form  and  fire  for  our  sakes. 

38 


To  Walt  Whitman  in  America 


For  a  continent  bloodless  with  travail 
Here  toils  and  brawls  as  it  can, 

And  the  web  of  it  who  shall  unravel 
Of  all  that  peer  on  the  plan  ; 

Would  fain  grow  men,  but  they  grow  not, 

And  fain  be  free,  but  they  know  not 
One  name  for  freedom  and  man? 

One  name,  not  twain  for  division  ; 

One  thing,  not  twain,  from  the  birth ; 
Spirit  and  substance  and  vision. 

Worth  more  than  worship  is  worth ; 
Unbeheld,  unadored,  undivined. 
The  cause,  the  centre,  the  mind. 

The  secret  and  sense  of  the  earth. 

Here  as  a  weakling  in  irons. 

Here  as  a  weanling  in  bands. 
As  a  prey  that  the  stake-net  environs. 

Our  life  that  we  looked  for  stands  ; 
And  the  man-child  naked  and  dear. 
Democracy,  turns  on  us  here 

Eyes  trembling  with  tremulous  hands. 

It  sees  not  what  season  shall  bring  to  it 
Sweet  fruit  of  its  bitter  desire ; 

Few  voices  it  hears  yet  sing  to  it. 
Few  pulses  of  hearts  reaspire ; 

Foresees  not  time,  nor  forebears 

The  noises  of  imminent  years. 

Earthquake,  and  thunder,  and  fire  : 

39 


To  Walt  Whitman  in  America 


When  crowned  and  weaponed  and  curbless 
It  shall  walk  without  helm  or  shield 

The  bare  burnt  furrows  and  herbless 
Of  war's  last  flame-stricken  field, 

Till  godlike,  equal  with  time, 

It  stand  in  the  sun  sublime, 

In  the  godhead  of  man  revealed. 

Round  your  people  and  over  them 

Light  like  raiment  is  drawn. 
Close  as  a  garment  to  cover  them 

Wrought  not  of  mail  nor  of  lawn  ; 
Here,  with  hope  hardly  to  wear, 
Naked  nations  and  bare 

Swim,  sink,  strike  out  for  the  dawn. 

Chains  are  here,  and  a  prison, 
Kings,  and  subjects,  and  shame  ; 

If  the  God  upon  you  be  arisen. 

How  should  our  songs  be  the  same  ? 

How,  in  confusion  of  change. 

How  shall  we  sing  in  a  strange 
Land,  songs  praising  his  name  ? 

God  is  buried  and  dead  to  us, 

Even  the  spirit  of  earth. 
Freedom ;  so  have  they  said  to  us, 

Some  with  mocking  and  mirth. 
Some  with  heartbreak  and  tears  ; 
And  a  God  without  eyes,  without  ears. 

Who  shall  sing  of  him,  dead  in  the  birth  ? 


40 


To  Walt  Whitman  in  America 


The  earth-god  Freedom,  the  lonely 
Face  lightening,  the  footprint  unshod. 

Not  as  one  man  crucified  only 

Nor  scourged  with  but  one  life's  rod ; 

The  soul  that  is  substance  of  nations, 

Reincarnate  with  fresh  generations  ; 
The  great  god  Man,  which  is  God. 

But  in  weariest  of  years  and  obscurest 
Doth  it  live  not  at  heart  of  all  things, 

The  one  God  and  one  spirit,  a  purest 
Life,  fed  from  unstanchable  springs? 

Within  love,  within  hatred  it  is. 

And  its  seed  in  the  stripe  as  the  kiss. 
And  in  slaves  is  the  germ,  and  in  king: 

Freedom  we  call  it,  for  holier 

Name  of  the  soul's  there  is  none  ; 

Surelier  it  labours,  if  slowlier. 

Than  the  metres  of  star  or  of  sun  ; 

Slowlier  than  life  into  breath, 

Surelier  than  time  into  death. 
It  moves  till  its  labour  be  done. 

Till  the  motion  be  done  and  the  measure 
Circling  through  season  and  clime, 

Slumber  and  sorrow  and  pleasure, 
Vision  of  virtue  and  crime  ; 

Till  consummate  with  conquering  eyes, 

A  soul  disembodied,  it  rise 

From  the  body  transfigured  of  time. 


4« 


To  Walt  Whitman  in   America 


Till  it  rise  and  remain  and  take  station 
With  the  stars  of  the  world  that  rejoice ; 

Till  the  voice  of  its  heart's  exultation 
Be  as  theirs  an  invariable  voice  ; 

By  no  discord  of  evil  estranged, 

By  no  pause,  by  no  breach  in  it  changed. 
By  no  clash  in  the  chord  of  its  choice. 

It  is  one  with  the  world's  generations, 
With  the  spirit,  the  star,  and  the  sod  ; 

With  the  kingless  and  king-stricken  nations, 
With  the  cross,  and  the  chain,  and  the  rod ; 

The  most  high,  the  most  secret,  most  lonely, 

The  earth-soul  Freedom,  that  only 
Lives,  and  that  only  is  God. 


42 


A   Leave-Taking 


LET  us  go  hence,  my  songs ;  she  will  not  hear. 
Let  us  go  hence  together  without  fear ; 
Keep  silence  now,  for  singing-time  is  over. 
And  over  all  old  things  and  all  things  dear. 
She  loves  not  you  nor  me  as  all  we  love  her. 
Yea,  though  we  sang  as  angels  in  her  ear, 
She  would  not  hear. 

Let  us  rise  up  and  part ;  she  will  not  know. 
Let  us  go  seaward  as  the  great  winds  go. 
Full  of  blown  sand  and  foam  ;  what  help  is  here  ? 
There  is  no  help,  for  all  these  things  are  so. 
And  all  the  world  is  bitter  as  a  tear. 
And  how  these  things  are,  though  ye  strove  to  show. 
She  would  not  know. 

Let  us  go  home  and  hence ;  she  will  not  weep. 
We  gave  love  many  dreams  and  days  to  keep. 
Flowers  without  scent,  and  fruits  that  would  not  grow. 
Saying  *•  If  thou  wilt,  thrust  in  thy  sickle  and  reap.' 
All  is  reaped  now ;  no  grass  is  left  to  mow ; 
And  we  that  sowed,  though  all  we  fell  on  sleep. 
She  would  not  weep. 

Let  us  go  hence  and  rest ;  she  will  not  love. 
She  shall  not  hear  us  if  we  sing  hereof. 
Nor  see  love's  ways,  how  sore  they  are  and  steep. 
Come  hence,  let  be,  lie  still ;  it  is  enough. 


43 


A   Leave-Taking 


Love  is  a  barren  sea,  bitter  and  deep ; 
And  though  she  saw  all  heaven  in  flower  above, 
She  would  not  love. 

Let  us  give  up,  go  down  ;  she  will  not  care. 
Though  all  the  stars  made  gold  of  all  the  air. 
And  the  sea  moving  saw  before  it  move 
One  moon-flower  making  all  the  foam-flowers  fair  j 
Though  all  those  waves  went  over  us,  and  drove 
Deep  down  the  stifling  lips  and  drowning  hair, 
She  would  not  care. 

Let  us  go  hence,  go  hence  ;  she  will  not  see. 
Sing  all  once  more  together ;  surely  she. 
She  too,  remembering  days  and  words  that  were. 
Will  turn  a  little  toward  us,  sighing;  but  we. 
We  are  hence,  we  are  gone,  as  though  we  had  not  been  there 
Nay,  and  though  all  men  seeing  had  pity  on  me. 
She  would  not  see. 


44 


Madonna  Mia 


UNDER  green  apple-boughs 
That  never  a  storm  will  rouse, 
My  lady  hath  her  house 
Between  two  bowers ; 
In  either  of  the  twain 
Red  roses  full  of  rain  ; 
She  hath  for  bondwomen 
All'  kind  of  flowers. 


She  hath  no  handmaid  fair 
To  draw  her  curled  gold  hair 
Through  rings  of  gold  that  bear 

Her  whole  hair's  weight; 
She  hath  no  maids  to  stand 
Gold-clothed  on  either  hand  ; 
In  all  the  great  green  land 

None  is  so  great. 


She  hath  no  more  to  wear 
But  one  white  hood  of  vair 
Drawn  over  eyes  and  hair, 

Wrought  with  strange  gold, 
Made  for  some  great  queen's  head. 
Some  fair  great  queen  since  dead ; 
And  one  strait  gown  of  red 

Against  the  cold. 


45 


Madonna  Mia 


Beneath  her  eyelids  deep 
Love  lying  seems  asleep, 
Love,  swift  to  wake,  to  weep. 

To  laugh,  to  gaze  ; 
Her  breasts  are  like  white  birds, 
And  all  her  gracious  words 
As  water-grass  to  herds 

In  the  June-days. 


To  her  all  dews  that  fall 
And  rains  are  musical ; 
Her  flowers  are  fed  from  all. 

Her  joy  from  these  ; 
In  the  deep-feathered  firs 
Their  gift  of  joy  is  hers, 
In  the  least  breath  that  stirs 

Across  the  trees. 


She  grows  with  greenest  leaves. 
Ripens  with  reddest  sheaves. 
Forgets,  remembers,  grieves. 

And  is  not  sad  ; 
The  quiet  lands  and  skies 
Leave  light  upon  her  eyes  ; 
None  knows  her,  weak  or  wise, 

Or  tired  or  glad. 


46 


Madonna  Mia 


None  knows,  none  understands, 
What  flowers  are  like  her  hands ; 
Though  you  should  search  all  lands 

Wherein  time  grows, 
What  snows  are  like  her  feet. 
Though  his  eyes  burn  with  heat 
Through  gazing  on  my  sweet. 

Yet  no  man  knows. 


Only  this  thing  is  said  ; 

That  white  and  gold  and  red, 

God's  three  chief  words,  man's  bread 

And  oil  and  wine. 
Were  given  her  for  dowers. 
And  kingdom  of  all  hours. 
And  grace  of  goodly  flowers 

And  various  vine. 


This  is  my  lady's  praise : 

God  after  many  days 

Wrought  her  in  unknown  ways, 

In  sunset  lands; 
This  was  my  lady's  birth ; 
God  gave  her  might  and  mirth 
And  laid  his  whole  sweet  earth 

Between  her  hands. 


47 


Madonna  Mia 


Under  deep  apple-boughs 
My  lady  hath  her  house ; 
She  wears  upon  her  brows 

The  flower  thereof ; 
All  saying  but  what  God  saith 
To  her  is  as  vain  breath; 
She  is  more  strong  than  death, 

Being  strong  as  love. 


48 


Adieux   a   Marie   Stuart 


I 

QUEEN,  for  whose  house  my  fathers  fought, 
With  hopes  that  rose  and  fell, 
Red  star  of  boyhood's  fiery  thought, 
Farewell. 

They  gave  their  lives,  and  I,  my  queen. 

Have  given  you  of  my  life. 
Seeing  your  brave  star  burn  high  between 

Men's  strife. 

The  strife  that  lightened  round  their  spears 

Long  since  fell  still  :   so  long 
Hardly  may  hope  to  last  in  years 

My  song. 

But  still  through  strife  of  time  and  thought 

Your  light  on  me  too  fell  : 
Queen,  in  whose  name  we  sang  or  fought, 

Farewell. 


49 


Adieux   a   Marie   Stuart 


11 

There  beats  no  heart  on  either  border 
Wherethrough  the  north  blasts  blow 

But  keeps  your  memory  as  a  warder 
His  beacon-fire  aglow. 

Long  since  it  fired  with  love  and  wonder 

Mine,  for  whose  April  age 
Blithe  midsummer  made  banquet  under 

The  shade  of  Hermitage. 

Soft  sang  the  burn's  blithe  notes,  that  gather 

Strength  to  ring  true  : 
And  air  and  trees  and  sun  and  heather 

Remembered  you. 

Old  border  ghosts  of  fight  or  fairy 

Or  love  or  teen, 
These  they  forgot,  remembering  Mary 

The  Queen. 


50 


Adieux  a   Marie   Stuart 


III 

Queen  once  of  Scots  and  ever  of  ours 
Whose  sires  brought  forth  for  you 

Their  lives  to  strew  your  way  like  flowers, 
Adieu. 

Dead  is  full  many  a  dead  man's  name 

Who  died  for  you  this  long 
Time  past :  shall  this  too  fare  the  same, 

My  song  ? 

But  surely,  though  it  die  or  live, 

Your  face  was  worth 
All  that  a  man  may  think  to  give 

On  earth. 

No  darkness  cast  of  years  between 

Can  darken  you  : 
Man's  love  will  never  bid  my  queen 

Adieu. 


51 


Adieux   S    Marie   Stuart 


IV 

Love  hangs  like  light  about  your  name 

As  music  round  the  shell : 
No  heart  can  take  of  you  a  tame 

Farewell. 

Yet,  when  your  very  face  was  seen, 
111  gifts  were  yours  for  giving : 

Love  gat  strange  guerdons  of  my  queen 
When  living. 

O  diamond  heart  unflawed  and  clear, 
The  whole  world's  crowning  jewel ! 

Was  ever  heart  so  dearly  dear 
So  cruel  ? 

Yet  none  for  you  of  all  that  bled 
Grudged  once  one  drop  that  fell  : 

Not  one  to  life  reluctant  said 
Farewell. 


52 


Adieux   a   Marie   Stuart 


V 

Strange  love  they  have  given  you,  love  disloyal, 
Who  mock  with  praise  your  name. 

To  leave  a  head  so  rare  and  royal 
Too  low  for  praise  or  blame. 

You  could  not  love  nor  hate,  they  tell  us. 

You  had  nor  sense  nor  sting  : 
In  God's  name,  then,  what  plague  befell  us 

To  fight  for  such  a  thing  ? 

"  Some  faults  the  gods  will  give,"  to  fetter 

Man's  highest  intent : 
But  surely  you  were  something  better 

Than  innocent  ! 

No  maid  that  stays  with  steps  unwary 

Through  snares  unseen, 
But  one  to  live  and  die  for;  Mary, 

The  Queen. 


53 


Adieux  a   Marie  Stuart 


VI 

Forgive  them  all  their  praise,  who  blot 
Your  fame  with  praise  of  you  : 

Then  love  may  say,  and  falter  not, 
Adieu. 

Yet  some  you  hardly  would  forgive 
Who  did  you  much  less  wrong 

Once  :  but  resentment  should  not  live 
Too  long. 

They  never  saw  your  lip's  bright  bow. 

Your  swordbright  eyes. 
The  bluest  of  heavenly  things  below 

The  skies. 

Clear  eyes  that  love's  self  finds  most  like 

A  swordblade's  blue, 
A  swordblade's  ever  keen  to  strike. 

Adieu. 


54 


Adieux   a    Marie   Stuart 


VII 

Though  all  things  breathe  or  sound  of  fight 

That  yet  make  up  your  spell, 
To  bid  you  were  to  bid  the  light 

Farewell. 

Farewell  the  song  says  only,  being 

A  star  whose  race  is  run  : 
Farewell  the  soul  says  never,  seeing 

The  sun. 

Yet,  wellnigh  as  with  flash  of  tears, 

The  song  must  say  but  so 
That  took  your  praise  up  twenty  years 

Ago. 

More  bright  than  stars  or  moons  that  vary. 

Sun  kindling  heaven  and  hell. 
Here,  after  all  these  years,  Queen  Mary, 

Farewell. 


55 


Sonnet 


[With  a  copy  of  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin) 

THIS  is  the  golden  book  of  spirit  and  sense, 
The  holy  writ  of  beauty  ;  he  that  wrought 
Made  it  with  dreams  and  faultless  words  and  thought 

That  seeks  and  finds  and  loses  in  the  dense 

Dim  air  of  life  that  beauty's  excellence 

Wherewith  love  makes  one  hour  of  life  distraught 
And  all  hours  after  follow  and  find  not  aught. 

Here  is  that  height  of  all  love's  eminence 

Where  man  may  breathe  but  for  a  breathing-space 
And  feel  his  soul  burn  as  an  altar-fire 
To  the  unknown  God  of  unachieved  desire, 

And  from  the  middle  mystery  of  the  place 

Watch  lights  that  break,  hear  sounds  as  of  a  quire. 

But  see  not  twice  unveiled  the  veiled  God's  face. 


56 


A   Match 


IF  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
1      And  I  were  like  the  leaf, 
Our  lives  would  grow  together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather. 
Blown  fields  or  flowerful  closes. 

Green  pleasure  or  grey  grief; 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  is. 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are. 

And  love  were  like  the  tune, 
With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 
With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 

That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon ; 
If  I  were  what  the  words  are 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling. 
And  I  your  love  were  death. 

We'd  shine  and  snow  together 

Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather 

With  daffodil  and  starling 
And  hours  of  fruitful  breath  j 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling. 
And  I  your  love  were  death. 


57 


A   Match 


If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy, 
We'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow 
And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy ; 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow. 
And  I  were  page  to  joy. 

If  you  were  April's  lady. 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers. 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady 

And  night  were  bright  like  day ; 
If  you  were  April's  lady. 
And  I  were  lord  in  May. 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain. 
We'd  hunt  down  love  together, 
Pluck  out  his  flying-feather. 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure. 
And  find  his  mouth  a  rein ; 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure. 
And  I  were  king  of  pain. 


58 


In  Memory  of  Walter  Savage  Landor 


BACK  to  the  flower-town,  side  by  side, 
The  bright  months  bring. 
New-born,  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 
Freedom  and  spring. 

The  sweet  land  laughs  from  sea  to  sea. 

Filled  full  of  sun ; 
All  things  come  back  to  her,  being  free; 

All  things  but  one. 

In  many  a  tender  wheaten  plot 

Flowers  that  were  dead 
Live,  and  old  suns  revive  ;  but  not 

That  holier  head. 

By  this  white  wandering  waste  of  sea. 

Far  north,  I  hear 
One  face  shall  never  turn  to  me 

As  once  this  year: 

Shall  never  smile  and  turn  and  rest 

On  mine  as  there. 
Nor  one  most  sacred  hand  be  prest 

Upon  my  hair. 

I  came  as  one  whose  thoughts  half  linger, 

Half  run  before; 
The  youngest  to  the  oldest  singer 

That  England  bore. 


59 


In  Memory  of  Walter  Savage  Landor 


I  found  him  whom  I  shall  not  find 

Till  all  grief  end, 
In  holiest  age  our  mightiest  mind, 

Father  and  friend. 

But  thou,  if  anything  endure. 

If  hope  there  be, 
O  spirit  that  man's  life  left  pure, 

Man's  death  set  free. 

Not  with  disdain  of  days  that  were 

Look  earthward  now; 
Let  dreams  revive  the  reverend  hair, 

The  imperial  brow; 

Come  back  in  sleep,  for  in  the  life 

Where  thou  art  not 
We  find  none  like  thee.     Time  and  strife 

And  the  world's  lot 

Move  thee  no  more;  but  love  at  least 

And  reverent  heart 
May  move  thee,  royal  and  released, 

Soul,  as  thou  art. 

And  thou,  his  Florence,  to  thy  trust 

Receive  and  keep. 
Keep  safe  his  dedicated  dust. 

His  sacred  sleep. 


60 


In  Memory  of  Walter  Savage  Landor 


So  shall  thy  lovers,  come  from  far, 

Mix  with  thy  name 
As  morning-star  with  evening-star 

His  faultless  fame. 


61 


The  Oblation 


Ask  nothing  more  of  me,  sweet ; 
All  I  can  give  you  I  give. 

Heart  of  my  heart,  were  it  more, 
More  would  be  laid  at  your  feet : 
Love  that  should  help  you  to  live, 
Song  that  should  spur  you  to  soar. 

All  things  were  nothing  to  give 
Once  to  have  sense  of  you  more. 
Touch  you  and  taste  of  you  sweet, 
Think  you  and  breathe  you  and  live. 
Swept  of  your  wings  as  they  soar. 
Trodden  by  chance  of  your  feet. 

I  that  have  love  and  no  more 

Give  you  but  love  of  you,  sweet : 
He  that  hath  more,  let  him  give ; 
He  that  hath  wings,  let  him  soar ; 
Mine  is  the  heart  at  your  feet 
Here,  that  must  love  you  to  live. 


6z 


The  Triumph  of  Time 


BEFORE  our  lives  divide  for  ever. 
While  time  is  with  us  and  hands  are  free, 
(Time,  swift  to  fasten  and  swift  to  sever 

Hand  from  hand,  as  we  stand  by  the  sea) 
I  will  say  no  word  that  a  man  might  say 
Whose  whole  life's  love  goes  down  in  a  day; 
For  this  could  never  have  been ;  and  never. 

Though  the  gods  and  the  years  relent,  shall  be. 

Is  it  worth  a  tear,  is  it  worth  an  hour, 

To  think  of  things  that  are  well  outworn  ? 
Of  fruitless  husk  and  fugitive  flower. 

The  dream  foregone  and  the  deed  foreborne  ? 
Though  joy  be  done  with  and  grief  be  vain. 
Time  shall  not  sever  us  wholly  in  twain  j 
Earth  is  not  spoilt  for  a  single  shower ; 

But  the  rain  has  ruined  the  ungrown  corn. 

It  will  grow  not  again,  this  fruit  of  my  heart. 
Smitten  with  sunbeams,  ruined  with  rain. 

The  singing  seasons  divide  and  depart, 
Winter  and  summer  depart  in  twain. 

It  will  grow  not  again,  it  is  ruined  at  root. 

The  bloodlike  blossom,  the  dull  red  fruit ; 

Though  the  heart  yet  sickens,  the  lips  yet  smart, 
With  sullen  savour  of  poisonous  pain. 

I  have  given  no  man  of  my  fruit  to  eat; 

I  trod  the  grapes,  I  have  drunken  the  wine. 
Had  you  eaten  and  drunken  and  found  it  sweet. 

This  wild  new  growth  of  the  corn  and  vine, 

63 


The   Triumph   of  Time 


This  wine  and  bread  without  lees  or  leaven, 
We  had  grown  as  gods,  as  the  gods  in  heaven, 
Souls  fair  to  look  upon,  goodly  to  greet, 
One  splendid  spirit,  your  soul  and  mine. 

In  the  change  of  years,  in  the  coil  of  things. 
In  the  clamour  and  rumour  of  life  to  be, 
We,  drinking  love  at  the  furthest  springs. 

Covered  with  love  as  a  covering  tree. 
We  had  grown  as  gods,  as  the  gods  above. 
Filled  from  the  heart  to  the  lips  with  love. 
Held  fast  in  his  hands,  clothed  warm  with  his  wings, 
O  love,  my  love,  had  you  loved  but  me  ! 

We  had  stood  as  the  sure  stars  stand,  and  moved 
As  the  moon  moves,  loving  the  world ;  and  seen 

Grief  collapse  as  a  thing  disproved. 
Death  consume  as  a  thing  unclean. 

Twain  halves  of  a  perfect  heart,  made  fast 

Soul  to  soul  while  the  years  fell  past ; 

Had  you  loved  me  once,  as  you  have  not  loved ; 
Had  the  chance  been  with  us  that  has  not  been. 

I  have  put  my  days  and  dreams  out  of  mind. 
Days  that  are  over,  dreams  that  are  done. 
Though  we  seek  life  through,  we  shall  surely  find 

There  is  none  of  them  clear  to  us  now,  not  one. 
But  clear  are  these  things ;  the  grass  and  the  sand 
Where,  sure  as  the  eyes  reach,  ever  at  hand, 
With  lips  wide  open  and  face  burnt  blind, 
The  strong  sea-daisies  feast  on  the  sun. 


64 


The   Triumph   of  Time 


The  low  downs  lean  to  the  sea ;  the  stream, 
One  loose  thin  pulseless  tremulous  vein, 

Rapid  and  vivid  and  dumb  as  a  dream, 

Works  downward,  sick  of  the  sun  and  the  rain  ; 

No  wind  is  rough  with  the  rank  rare  flowers ; 

The  sweet  sea,  mother  of  loves  and  hours. 

Shudders  and  shines  as  the  grey  winds  gleam. 
Turning  her  smile  to  a  fugitive  pain. 

Mother  of  loves  that  are  swift  to  fade. 
Mother  of  mutable  winds  and  hours. 
A  barren  mother,  a  mother-maid. 

Cold  and  clean  as  her  faint  salt  flowers. 
I  would  we  twain  were  even  as  she. 
Lost  in  the  night  and  the  light  of  the  sea. 
Where  faint  sounds  falter  and  wan  beams  wade. 
Break,  and  are  broken,  and  shed  into  showers. 

The  loves  and  hours  of  the  life  of  a  man. 

They  are  swift  and  sad,  being  born  of  the  sea. 

Hours  that  rejoice  and  regret  for  a  span. 
Born  with  a  man's  breath,  mortal  as  he ; 

Loves  that  are  lost  ere  they  come  to  birth. 

Weeds  of  the  wave,  without  fruit  upon  earth. 

I  lose  what  I  long  for,  save  what  I  can. 
My  love,  my  love,  and  no  love  for  me  ! 

It  is  not  much  that  a  man  can  save 

On  the  sands  of  life,  in  the  straits  of  time, 

Who  swims  in  sight  of  the  great  third  wave 
That  never  a  swimmer  shall  cross  or  climb. 

65 


The   Triumph   of  Time 


Some  waif  washed  up  with  the  strays  and  spars 
That  ebb-tide  shows  to  the  shore  and  the  stars  ; 
Weed  from  the  water,  grass  from  a  grave, 
A  broken  blossom,  a  ruined  rhyme. 

There  will  no  man  do  for  your  sake,  I  think. 

What  I  would  have  done  for  the  least  word  said. 
I  had  wrung  life  dry  for  your  lips  to  drink, 

Broken  it  up  for  your  daily  bread : 
Body  for  body  and  blood  for  blood, 
As  the  flow  of  the  full  sea  risen  to  flood 
That  yearns  and  trembles  before  it  sink, 

I  had  given,  and  lain  down  for  you,  glad  and  dead. 

Yea,  hope  at  highest  and  all  her  fruit. 
And  time  at  fullest  and  all  his  dower, 

I  had  given  you  surely,  and  life  to  boot. 
Were  we  once  made  one  for  a  single  hour. 

But  now  you  are  twain,  you  are  cloven  apart. 

Flesh  of  his  flesh,  but  heart  of  my  heart : 

And  deep  in  one  is  the  bitter  root. 

And  sweet  for  one  is  the  lifelong  flower. 

To  have  died  if  you  cared  I  should  die  for  you,  clung 
To  my  life  if  you  bade  me,  played  my  part 

As  it  pleased  you — these  were  the  thoughts  that  stung, 
The  dreams  that  smote  with  a  keener  dart 

Than  shafts  of  love  or  arrows  of  death  ; 

These  were  but  as  fire  is,  dust,  or  breath, 

Or  poisonous  foam  on  the  tender  tongue 
Of  the  little  snakes  that  eat  my  heart. 

66 


The   Triumph   of  Time 


I  wish  we  were  dead  together  to-day, 

Lost  sight  of,  hidden  away  out  of  sight. 
Clasped  and  clothed  in  the  cloven  clay. 

Out  of  the  world's  way,  out  of  the  light, 
Out  of  the  ages  of  worldly  weather. 
Forgotten  of  all  men  altogether, 
As  the  world's  first  dead,  taken  wholly  away. 

Made  one  with  death,  filled  full  of  the  night. 

How  we  should  slumber,  how  we  should  sleep. 
Far  in  the  dark  with  the  dreams  and  the  dews  ! 

And  dreaming,  grow  to  each  other,  and  weep. 
Laugh  low,  live  softly,  murmur  and  muse  : 

Yea,  and  it  may  be,  struck  through  by  the  dream, 

Feel  the  dust  quicken  and  quiver,  and  seem 

Alive  as  of  old  to  the  lips,  and  leap 
Spirit  to  spirit  as  lovers  use. 

Sick  dreams  and  sad  of  a  dull  delight ; 

For  what  shall  it  profit  when  men  are  dead 
To  have  dreamed,  to  have  loved  with  the  whole  soul's  might. 

To  have  looked  for  day  when  the  day  was  fled  ? 
Let  come  what  will,  there  is  one  thing  worth. 
To  have  had  fair  love  in  the  life  upon  earth  : 
To  have  held  love  safe  till  the  day  grew  night. 

While  skies  had  colour  and  lips  were  red. 

Would  I  lose  you  now  ?   would  I  take  you  then. 

If  I  lose  you  now  that  my  heart  has  need  ? 
And  come  what  may  after  death  to  men. 

What  thing  worth  this  will  the  dead  years  breed  ? 

67 


The   Triumph   of  Time 


Lose  life,  lose  all ;  but  at  least  I  know, 

0  sweet  life's  love,  having  loved  you  so. 

Had  I  reached  you  on  earth,  I  should  lose  not  again. 
In  death  nor  life,  nor  in  dream  or  deed. 

Yea,  I  know  this  well :  were  you  once  sealed  mine, 
Mine  in  the  blood's  beat,  mine  in  the  breath. 

Mixed  into  me  as  honey  in  wine. 

Not  time  that  sayeth  and  gainsayeth. 

Nor  all  strong  things  had  severed  us  then  ; 

Not  wrath  of  gods,  nor  wisdom  of  men. 

Nor  all  things  earthly,  nor  all  divine. 
Nor  joy  nor  sorrow,  nor  life  nor  death. 

1  had  grown  pure  as  the  dawn  and  the  dew. 

You  had  grown  strong  as  the  sun  or  the  sea. 
But  none  shall  triumph  a  whole  life  through  : 

For  death  is  one  and  the  fates  are  three. 
At  the  door  of  life,  by  the  gate  of  breath, 
There  are  worse  things  waiting  for  men  than  death ; 
Death  could  not  sever  my  soul  and  you, 

As  these  have  severed  your  soul  from  me. 

You  have  chosen  and  clung  to  the  chance  they  sent  you. 

Life  sweet  as  perfume  and  pure  as  prayer. 
But  will  it  not  one  day  in  heaven  repent  you  ? 

Will  they  solace  you  wholly,  the  days  that  were  ? 
Will  you  lift  up  your  eyes  between  sadness  and  bliss, 

Meet  mine,  and  see  where  the  great  love  is. 
And  tremble,  and  turn  and  be  changed  ?   Content  you  ; 

The  gate  is  straight ;  I  shall  not  be  there. 

68 


The   Triumph   of  Time 


But  you,  had  you  chosen,  had  you  stretched  hand. 
Had  you  seen  good  such  a  thing  were  done, 

I  too  might  have  stood  with  the  souls  that  stand 

In  the  sun's  sight,  clothed  with  the  light  of  the  sun  ; 

But  who  now  on  earth  need  care  how  I  live  ? 

Have  the  high  gods  anything  left  to  give, 

Save  dust  and  laurels  and  gold  and  sand? 
Which  gifts  are  goodly  ;  but  I  will  none. 

0  all  fair  lovers  about  the  world. 

There  is  none  of  you,  none,  that  shall  comfort  me. 
My  thoughts  are  as  dead  things,  wrecked  and  whirled 

Round  and  round  in  a  gulf  of  the  sea ; 
And  still,  through  the  sound  and  the  straining  stream. 
Through  the  coil  and  chafe,  they  gleam  in  a  dream^ 
The  bright  fine  lips  so  cruelly  curled. 

And  strange  swift  eyes  where  the  soul  sits  free. 

Free,  without  pity,  withheld  from  woe. 

Ignorant ;   fair  as  the  eyes  are  fair. 
Would  I  have  you  change  now,  change  at  a  blow, 

Startled  and  stricken,  awake  and  aware  ? 
Yea,  if  I  could,  would  I  have  you  see 
My  very  love  of  you  filling  me. 
And  know  my  soul  to  the  quick,  as  I  know 

The  likeness  and  look  of  your  throat  and  hair  ? 

1  shall  not  change  you.     Nay,  though  I  might. 

Would  I  change  my  sweet  one  love  with  a  word  ? 
I  had  rather  your  hair  should  change  in  a  night. 
Clear  now  as  the  plume  of  a  black  bright  bird ; 

69 


The   Triumph    of  Time 


Your  face  fail  suddenly,  cease,  turn  grey. 
Die  as  a  leaf  that  dies  in  a  day. 
I  will  keep  my  soul  in  a  place  out  of  sight. 
Far  off,  where  the  pulse  of  it  is  not  heard. 

Far  off  it  walks,  in  a  bleak  blown  space. 
Full  of  the  sound  of  the  sorrow  of  years. 

I  have  woven  a  veil  for  the  weeping  face, 
Whose  lips  have  drunken  the  wine  of  tears ; 

I  have  found  a  way  for  the  failing  feet, 

A  place  for  slumber  and  sorrow  to  meet ; 

There  is  no  rumour  about  the  place. 
Nor  light,  nor  any  that  sees  or  hears. 

I  have  hidden  my  soul  out  of  sight,  and  said 

"  Let  none  take  pity  upon  thee,  none 
Comfort  thy  crying  :   for  lo,  thou  art  dead. 

Lie  still  now,  safe  out  of  sight  of  the  sun. 
Have  I  not  built  thee  a  grave,  and  wrought 
Thy  grave-clothes  on  thee  of  grievous  thought. 
With  soft  spun  verses  and  tears  unshed. 
And  sweet  light  visions  of  things  undone? 

"  I  have  given  thee  garments  and  balm  and  myrrh. 
And  gold,  and  beautiful  burial  things. 

But  thou,  be  at  peace  now,  make  no  stir ; 
Is  not  thy  grave  as  a  royal  king's  ? 

Fret  not  thyself  though  the  end  were  sore  ; 

Sleep,  be  patient,  vex  me  no  more. 

Sleep  ;  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  her  ? 

The  eyes  that  weep,  with  the  mouth  that  sings  ? 


70 


The   Triumph   of  Time 


Where  the  dead  red  leaves  of  the  years  lie  rotten, 

The  cold  old  crimes  and  the  deeds  thrown  by, 
The  misconceived  and  the  misbegotten, 

I  would  find  a  sin  to  do  ere  I  die. 
Sure  to  dissolve  and  destroy  me  all  through. 
That  would  set  you  higher  in  heaven,  serve  you 
And  leave  you  happy,  when  clean  forgotten. 
As  a  dead  man  out  of  mind,  am  I. 

Your  lithe  hands  draw  me,  your  face  burns  through  me, 

I  am  swift  to  follow  you,  keen  to  see  ; 
But  love  lacks  might  to  redeem  or  undo  me. 

As  I  have  been,  I  know  I  shall  surely  be ; 
"  What  should  such  fellows  as  I  do  ?  "     Nay, 
My  part  were  worse  if  I  chose  to  play  ; 
For  the  worst  is  this  after  all ;  if  they  knew  me, 

Not  a  soul  upon  earth  would  pity  me. 

And  I  play  not  for  pity  of  these  ;  but  you. 
If  you  saw  with  your  soul  what  man  am  I, 

You  would  praise  me  at  least  that  my  soul  all  through 
Clove  to  you,  loathing  the  lives  that  lie  ; 

The  souls  and  lips  that  are  bought  and  sold. 

The  smiles  of  silver  and  kisses  of  gold. 

The  lapdog  loves  that  whine  as  they  chew. 
The  little  lovers  that  curse  and  cry. 

There  are  fairer  women,  I  hear ;  that  may  be 
But  I,  that  I  love  you  and  find  you  fair. 

Who  are  more  than  fair  in  my  eyes  if  they  be. 
Do  the  high  gods  know  or  the  great  gods  care  ? 

71 


The   Triumph   of  Time 


Though  the  swords  in  my  heart  for  one  were  seven. 
Would  the  iron  hollow  of  doubtful  heaven, 
That  knows  not  itself  whether  night-time  or  day  be. 
Reverberate  words  and  a  foolish  prayer  ? 

I  will  go  back  to  the  great  sweet  mother, 

Mother  and  lover  of  men,  the  sea. 
I  will  go  down  to  her,  I  and  none  other. 

Close  with  her,  kiss  her  and  mix  her  with  me  ; 
Cling  to  her,  strive  with  her,  hold  her  fast ; 
O  fair  white  mother,  in  days  long  past 
Born  without  sister,  born  without  brother, 

Set  free  my  soul  as  thy  soul  is  free. 

0  fair  green-girdled  mother  of  mine, 

Sea,  that  art  clothed  with  the  sun  and  the  rain. 
Thy  sweet  hard  kisses  are  strong  like  wine, 

Thy  large  embraces  are  keen  like  pain. 
Save  me  and  hide  me  with  all  thy  waves. 
Find  me  one  grave  of  thy  thousand  graves. 
Those  pure  cold  populous  graves  of  thine 

Wrought  without  hand  in  a  world  without  stain. 

1  shall  sleep,  and  move  with  the  moving  ships, 

Change  as  the  winds  change,  veer  in  the  tide  j 
My  lips  will  feast  on  the  foam  of  thy  lips, 

I  shall  rise  with  thy  rising,  with  thee  subside ; 
Sleep,  and  not  know  if  she  be,  if  she  were. 
Filled  full  with  life  to  the  eyes  and  hair. 
As  a  rose  is  fulfilled  to  the  roseleaf  tips 

With  splendid  summer  and  perfume  and  pride. 

7* 


The   Triumph   of  Time 


This  woven  raiment  of  nights  and  days, 

Were  it  once  cast  off  and  unwound  from  me 
Naked  and  glad  would  I  walk  in  thy  ways, 

Alive  and  aware  of  thy  ways  and  thee  ; 
Clear  of  the  whole  world,  hidden  at  home. 
Clothed  with  the  green  and  crowned  with  the  foam, 
A  pulse  of  the  life  of  thy  straits  and  bays, 

A  vein  in  the  heart  of  the  streams  of  the  sea. 

Fair  mother,  fed  with  the  lives  of  men, 

Thou  art  subtle  and  cruel  of  heart,  men  say. 

Thou  hast  taken,  and  shalt  not  render  again  ; 
Thou  art  full  of  thy  dead,  and  cold  as  they. 

But  death  is  the  worst  that  comes  of  thee  ; 

Thou  art  fed  with  our  dead,  O  mother,  O  sea. 

But  when  hast  thou  fed  on  our  hearts  ?  or  when, 
Having  given  us  love,  hast  thou  taken  away  ? 

O  tender-hearted,  O  perfect  lover. 

Thy  lips  are  bitter,  and  sweet  thine  heart. 

The  hopes  that  hurt  and  the  dreams  that  hover. 
Shall  they  not  vanish  away  and  apart  ? 

But  thou,  thou  art  sure,  thou  art  older  than  earth  ; 

Thou  art  strong  for  death  and  fruitful  of  birth  ; 

Thy  depths  conceal  and  thy  gulfs  discover ; 
From  the  first  thou  wert  j  in  the  end  thou  art. 

And  grief  shall  endure  not  forever,  I  know. 

As  things  that  are  not  shall  these  things  be  ; 
We  shall  live  through  seasons  of  sun  and  of  snow, 

And  none  be  grievous  as  this  to  me. 

73 


The   Triumph   of  Time 


We  shall  hear,  as  one  in  a  trance  that  hears, 
The  sound  of  time,  the  rhyme  of  the  years  ; 
Wrecked  hope  and  passionate  pain  will  grow 
As  tender  things  of  a  spring-tide  sea. 

Sea-fruit  that  swings  in  the  waves  that  hiss, 
Drowned  gold  and  purple  and  royal  rings. 
And  all  time  past,  was  it  all  for  this  ? 

Times  unforgotten,  and  treasures  of  things  ? 
Swift  years  of  liking  and  sweet  long  laughter. 
That  wist  not  well  of  the  years  thereafter 
Till  love  woke,  smitten  at  heart  by  a  kiss. 
With  lips  that  trembled  and  trailing  wings  ? 

There  lived  a  singer  in  France  of  old 

By  the  tideless  dolorous  midland  sea. 
In  a  land  of  sand  and  ruin  and  gold 

There  shone  one  woman,  and  none  but  she. 
And  finding  life  for  her  love's  sake  fail. 
Being  fain  to  see  her,  he  bade  set  sail. 
Touched  land,  and  saw  her  as  life  grew  cold, 
And  praised  God,  seeing ;  and  so  died  he. 

Died,  praising  God  for  his  gift  and  grace : 

For  she  bowed  down  to  him  weeping,  and  said 
"  Live ;"  and  her  tears  were  shed  on  his  face 

Or  ever  the  life  in  his  face  was  shed. 

The  sharp  tears  fell  through  her  hair,  and  stung 

Once,  and  her  close  lips  touched  him  and  clung 

Once,  and  grew  one  with  his  lips  for  a  space  ; 

And  so  drew  back,  and  the  man  was  dead. 


74 


The  Triumph   of  Time 


0  brother,  the  gods  were  good  to  you. 
Sleep,  and  be  glad  while  the  world  endures. 

Be  well  content  as  the  years  wear  through  ; 

Give  thanks  for  life,  and  the  loves  and  lures ; 
Give  thanks  for  life,  O  brother,  and  death. 
For  the  sweet  last  sound  of  her  feet,  her  breath, 
For  gifts  she  gave  you,  gracious  and  few, 

Tears  and  kisses,  that  lady  of  yours. 

Rest,  and  be  glad  of  the  gods  ;  but  I, 

How  shall  I  praise  them,  or  how  take  rest  ? 

There  is  not  room  under  all  the  sky 

For  me  that  know  not  of  worst  or  best, 

Dream  or  desire  of  the  days  before. 

Sweet  things  or  bitterness,  any  more. 

Love  will  not  come  to  me  now  though  I  die. 
As  love  came  close  to  you,  breast  to  breast. 

1  shall  never  be  friends  again  with  roses  ; 

I  shall  loathe  sweet  tunes,  where  a  note  grown  strong 
Relents  and  recoils,  and  climbs  and  closes, 

As  a  wave  of  the  sea  turned  back  by  song. 
There  are  sounds  where  the  soul's  delight  takes  fire. 
Face  to  face  with  its  own  desire ; 
A  delight  that  rebels,  a  desire  that  reposes  ; 

I  shall  hate  music  my  whole  life  long. 

The  pulse  of  war  and  passion  of  wonder. 

The  heavens  that  murmur,  the  sounds  that  shine, 

The  stars  that  sing  and  the  loves  that  thunder. 
The  music  burning  at  heart  like  wine, 

75 


The  Triumph  of  Time 


An  armed  archangel  whose  hands  raise  up 
All  senses  mixed  in  the  spirit's  cup 
Till  flesh  and  spirit  are  molten  in  sunder  — 
These  things  are  over,  and  no  more  mine. 

These  were  a  part  of  the  playing  I  heard 

Once,  ere  my  love  and  my  heart  were  at  strife  ; 

Love  that  sings  and  hath  wings  as  a  bird, 
Balm  of  the  wound  and  heft  of  the  knife. 

Fairer  than  earth  is  the  sea,  and  sleep 

Thah  overwatching  of  eyes  that  weep. 

Now  time  has  done  with  his  one  sweet  word. 
The  wine  and  leaven  of  lovely  life. 

I  shall  go  my  ways,  tread  out  my  measure, 

P'ill  the  days  of  my  daily  breath 
With  fugitive  things  not  good  to  treasure. 

Do  as  the  world  doth,  say  as  it  saith  ; 
But  if  we  had  loved  each  other  —  O  sweet. 
Had  you  felt,  lying  under  the  palms  of  your  feet. 
The  heart  of  my  heart,  beating  harder  with  pleasure 

To  feel  you  tread  it  to  dust  and  death  — 

Ah,  had  I  not  taken  my  life  up  and  given 

All  that  life  gives  and  the  years  let  go. 
The  wine  and  honey,  the  balm  and  leaven. 

The  dreams  reared  high  and  the  hopes  brought  low  ? 
Come  life,  come  death,  not  a  word  be  said ; 
Should  I  lose  you  living,  and  vex  you  dead  ? 
I  never  shall  tell  you  on  earth  ;  and  in  heaven 

If  I  cry  to  you  then  will  you  hear  or  know  ? 

76 


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